Monochrome
by Miss Kwon
Summary: When you close your eyes, you only find nuances of red among all the shades of this color. Red of the flag, red of the war, red of the blood, red of the wine, red of the chrysanthemum, red, your red. And you are just as monochromatic as this. .:Belarus-centric:. .:hints of RusBela and PruBela:. .:One-shot:.


Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. This story is for entertainment.

* * *

"Belarus!"

_1941._

_ Just ignore it._

You close your eyes, but the image does not disappear from your mind.

It would not disappear so quickly, you know it, it will torment you for a long time.

The sound burst in your ears, shake you slowly, a little bother, a little distraction. You could not leave, anyway, because soon they would arrive and take you away as well.

_Like they did to everybody else._

You feel as a pair of hands squeezes your shoulders and it hurts, but you limit yourself to only open your eyes, questioning the face before yours silently.

It's so cold and Ivan smiles, shaking you slightly and taking you away from there. His hand is warm against yours, and you see the contrast of the slight pink coloring of it against your completely pale hand. You almost can't feel it.

_That smile is disturbing._

Violet eyes look at you with certain curiosity, but you can't force yourself tell him that you're fine.

He always said that he hated when you lied to him.

Another explosion. You press your hands against your ears.

_Just make them stop screaming._

Red in white, black in grey, contrast disgusts and confuses you, your clothes are covered in blood, and its smell makes your stomach roll. Colors look dirty in this context and you almost ask to not see a single one of them anymore. It makes you tired and your head hurts.

_Just make it stop, make it stop._

You hear a sound that you don't recognize immediately, but what follows it you know very well: screams of agony, screams of pain, screams of panic. And you refuse to participate of whatever it's happening.

Your people, oh, no, they accept that.

_Everything for the homeland._

And that's just sick and disturbing. Funny how it seems you are the only one who can see that.

You fell to the ground after feeling shots against your shoulders and chest, your vision darkens immediately and you _know _what it means. You hate every single second, every sound, every image, and you can't stop, you can't breathe, because it hurts, _hurts_ and your lungs can't take it anymore.

The next sensation is of drowning, along with pain _– shouldn't pain be a collateral effect?_ – that knocks you down almost instantaneously.

You've always hated wars, principally when you were forced to be part of them.

* * *

Click.

"Natasha."

Annoying.

"My name is Natalia."

You hear as she snorts.

"Natalia. Look at me", you don't know why, you simply look up to her. And as soon as you glance at her, you regret it.

_Annoying._

Your sister's eyes are sad and show melancholy, which you know she fights every day and you hate to see her like that. You take it and live with it for less time than she does, but you can't just act like you are okay. And she knows it. Of course she does. She knows you better than you do.

"What's happening?" You avoid that worried look.

_She's an angel, she's always been an angel._

But you can't stand her.

A soul has a limit of how much suffering it can take, how much fears it can go through, and her soul passed through all the limits a _long _time ago. It's what happens when you live like she lived and is still living.

_It's all about what she went through._

_ She's now dead and soon, so will be you._

You notice it, even knowing that she doesn't want you or nobody else to notice. Her smile comforted you for many years, she's your family, but you _cannot _stand her. You just can't stand her because you don't want to be like her. Miserable.

Her sorrowful look is too much to take, the smile she uses to hide her tears is too much to take, the way she protects everyone she loves is too much to take.

And it makes you feel worse.

_Her words are lost in the wind and so is her heart._

"Nothing", you answer her after a while. She knows it's a lie, but smiles anyway and kisses your forehead. She _cares_.

"Go to sleep, Natasha", and she disappears into the house.

She also knows that, in that very moment, you are incapable of closing your eyes.

You want to sleep, you want to. But sleeping becomes difficult when every time you manage to distract yourself, your mind takes you to the battlefield with a defenseless kid bleeding in the middle of a shooting.

_And with all the other bodies thrown in the ground like they were worth nothing._

According to Ivan, it's because they really aren't worth it.

* * *

Snow is already black when it falls from the grey sky above your head.

Again, ground is covered in blood and you don't even try to hold back your tears.

It's shameful to have people seeing you cry, but you can't stop it.

_Red in white, black in grey. It's just sick._

Everything around you has those same particular colors. World has more joyful colors than that, but you are not able to see them now. All that you can see is a poisoned polychrome.

_Sick, sick, sick._

"It's almost over, Natalia" you can hear Toris say.

_Don't call him Toris._

You reprove yourself mentally. To you, he's Lithuania and it would be a lack of respect if you called him by his first name. You are not that close to him, even if he wants you to be.

"I know", it's what you answer, but not even for a second you believe that the war was close to an end.

* * *

He hates you when you act like this. And that hurts, hurts, because your love for him burns your skin and your chest and your heart.

"Ivan… Ivan!"

Your screams fill the house and none of the Baltics or your sister dare to go there and see what's going on. They already know.

"Let's marry!" you cry weakly, you grumble, you scream. "Let's get married! Open this damn door! IVAN!"

Your throat burns, but you can't give up so easily. Your yells are unceasing, reverberate through your body, shake you and fill you with more misery. You slam the door, punch it, scream harder, louder, this time, sticking your nails in the door and scratching it.

_You deserve it._

Pain burns your fingers. There's blood on the door, you see, as you kick it and then throw yourself against it. Scratch again, and your voice comes out guttural, pain finally locked you up.

You are tired, but fight is not over yet, and you _will _open that damn door because Ivan is behind it and you _need_ him. It doesn't matter that cost.

_You are sick and this is just not healthy._

You know he is not coming out, you know your tears won't stop falling down, you know you will have to clean up the blood later, but your vision is too blurred and your mind is too confused to understand that this is ridiculous.

Ridiculous, ridiculous, _ridiculous_.

Your dependence on him is ridiculous.

It's a middle-term. You love him and, because of that, you hate him.

You are a disgraceful addict.

You can barely see the door stained in several points with the blood that comes out from your fingers, you can barely see some of your nails stuck in the wood, you can barely see the doorknob broken, and you are too _tired_ to keep on trying. Your body slides until you are on the ground, you are not totally conscious anymore.

Everything burns.

_Funny how you were almost sure that pain was just a collateral effect._

Your skin is excessively pale, your blue-ice eyes are swollen and the blood starts to drain from the wound on your head.

_White, blue, red._

You laugh weakly. Tired, tired, tired.

The last thing you see is the door being opened.

* * *

You are not free.

The confirmation is the arrival of the Russian troops.

_Ivan, why?_

_ 1921._

You hate that moment.

The blonde-haired man is not smiling, but the Russian is. You know Feliks doesn't want to see you suffer. He doesn't like you – damn it, Toris –, but he doesn't hate you either.

_It's not fair._

It's when you truly understand how bad it is to not have people to trust in by your side.

* * *

The mirror is shameful.

It shows your face covered of wounds and cuts, swollen eyes, cracked lips.

"You are not healthy, Natalia." Ivan is formal when he drops a slight kiss in your cheek.

"I know."

It's your final answer before you pull him closer, he promptly pushes you to the mirror again. It hurts.

"You are pitiful."

And the pain of rejection seemed infinitely smaller.

* * *

Breathing is secondary when your lips fuse and shock against his.

That is the last thing you would imagine yourself doing with him, but there you are, your fingers tangled in his white hair and his hands tightening the grip on your waist possessively.

It feels good, but you know soon someone will find you in that situation, so you move away from him. That annoying smile shows up again and you limit yourself to slap him.

"Hey! How you dare to slap the awesome me?"

"You are ridiculous."

"Just admit, Natalia."

"You. Are. Ridiculous."

"You love me."

"I hate you."

He knows it's a lie. So do you.

* * *

"Why?"

You loved moments with no conflicts, and abominated how rare they were in your life.

"It's different."

"No, it's not. Why, Natasha?"

"Natalia."

"I just want to understand, I just want a reason. Is it so difficult? You loved Ivan, I get that, but… Him? Even him, and not me?"

"It's _different_, Toris."

"Lithuania."

His coldness grows from that day on.

So does your guilt.

* * *

You never knew to say when it stopped. You've always loved him, you just never knew to identify where the borders of this love were.

Brotherly-sisterly-love passion-love obsessive-love aggressive-love frustrating-love suppressed-love cold-love distant-love hate-love love _love_ love.

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. The pronounce is strong while it rolls out of your mouth and you like it, it's pretty.

Memory still burns your chest, but you refuse to let it affect you so much. It was better like this.

_I won't marry you, Natalia. _

You couldn't understand why.

_I don't see you that way._

Internally, you've always knew the real reason behind this. It hurted to know, but you could understand that he didn't want a maniac like you.

_Even if you forced yourself to believe that it was because he saw you as his little sister._

He is afraid of you, like everybody else.

Katyusha took care of him as much as she took care of you, having him as a _brat_ was the closest relationship you could have with him. You accepted it.

You are still sick, you know. Obsessive, compulsive, violent. You hate yourself for it, because you repudiate violence and repudiate how monomaniac you can be. Everybody fears or is disgusted by you.

_And it hurted so bad._

It doesn't matter what you say or what you do.

You still are insane, Natalia, still insane.

* * *

It wasn't because of his arrogant smile. It wasn't for the white hair or the fearless and scarlet look. It wasn't because of his courage, or his intelligence.

You couldn't find or understand what feature of his had attracted you so much.

You only knew that it was shameful how you gave in every time he pulled you closer for a kiss.

_And how you always asked him for more._

* * *

And when he's sleeping, you would be there, by his side, feeling better for the warmth that emanated from his body, tracing the lines of his neck with your hands, your icy fingers crawling down his back.

And when he wakes up, he will be mad at you and will yell. _A lot. _You are already used to this kind of behavior. It does not affect you anymore.

Perfectly normal. Perfectly acceptable because the thin line that divides normal from abnormal does not exist to you. Not anymore.

And when he screams at you about how crazy and stupid and sick and obsessive and disgusting you are, you'll diminish yourself before him because that _hurts_.

And when he blames you for all of _his_ mistakes and _his_ paranoia, you will simply laugh.

Because there's a limit, and you two had surpassed it a long time ago.

* * *

You were better with him and that's a fact.

He admits it. You admit it. Your sister admits it. The baltics admit it.

It doesn't matter that he doesn't want you back.

It doesn't matter.

You simply need to be with him again. Being one. Being protected, loved, wanted. What is his belongs to you and vice-versa.

And you two would be again the beautiful nation you were one day.

* * *

_Someone take me away from here._

You were thrown on the snow, bleeding a lot and with severe wounds.

The smell of rotting flesh mixed with chemicals makes you want to vomit, but you don't have enough strength even to put yourself up.

You feel your own blood being mixed with the snow and it disgusts you.

_Someone set me free._

You've spent days there, agonizing.

_Alone, lost, and dead, dead, dead, because there's nothing left of your soul anymore._

Being forgotten in the middle of the war, the snow, the bullets, the bombs, the suffering, the pain, the _pain,_ the screams. No, no, no.

It hurted to know that you were there while others were fighting and killing.

_They would rather to kill than to save, you already knew it._

You could be found, you could be saved.

And you weren't.

And when you realized it, the desperate loneliness became even more painful.

* * *

_1991._

You should feel better now. The worst part is already over.

Or it was still coming and you didn't know?

You smile, truly and happily, when you see your people free, and don't think twice before throwing yourself in Katya's arms, who smiled too.

_Her eyes were still sad, though._

That story about a king and a queen. And they die, die, die. The four girls too and with them everything is much worse, because innocent blood spilt is cruel and you hate it.

Whose fault? Is there someone to blame?

You cry.

_Pain is nothing but a collateral effect._

And everything else vanishes.

* * *

(Are you free?).

You laugh. You are insane. He is despicable.

(And so are you.).

Guilt tastes like ash in your mouth. You hate what you became.

(Are you free?).

* * *

The glass falls and breaks when Ivan pushes you against the table and tells you to leave him alone.

You know that's what you should do, you drove him crazy too many times.

Nonetheless, you can't stop it.

You need to _be _Russia again. With him. It was a shame how nobody seemed to understand that.

* * *

(Fairy tales should have sad endings. It would be more realistic. Closer to you.).

* * *

"Polychrome."

You blink twice, confused.

"Polychrome is the given name when there's more than one color."

And you smile.

_Pol-y-chrome._

The name sounds fun and simple in your lips and you like it.

White hair. Platinum hair. Red eyes. Blue eyes. White of the skin and white of the snow. Dark-blue of the clothes and purple-blue of the dress. Black of the military boots and of the doll shoes. Orange of the sky and the pens. Green, green of the grass and the trees and the pencils for coloring.

You smile.

_Polychrome._

The world seemed more beautiful like this.

* * *

_(That was never my intention. I never wanted to hurt you, not really.)._

You feel the imaginary chains weighting on your wrists and you want to have that damn freedom (it's always the freedom) to run and rip those papers that confirm the inexistence of the one who was an empire once.

You want to scream, cry, run to him and yell that he was a complete idiot, which is true, but you don't do any of this because it would be stupid and there's _nothing _else to do to change the situation.

You look up to the Russian and see guilt in his violet eyes and you can't figure if it's true or false. Ivan would never let you go to the other to help him or, at least, to show any evidence of the hate you were feeling.

You look at Russia and Russia looks at you. That's your confirmation. You can't freedom yourself for real. He owns you completely.

(And you know it's not that simple. You will always be connected, but as a human being, he will always have power over you.).

The sensation of chains on your wrists and ankles gets worse from this moment on.

* * *

"You and Ivan were never really equilibrated."

You agree with him. Of course you do.

Estonia knows you (better than you thought) and knows the Russian very well. He's right.

Whitish hair, eyes in derivatives tones of blue, pale skin, coldness, melancholy, and the damn history. You are _so _alike and yet, everything about you two reveals a clear lack of balance.

Whitish hair (his white and yours, blonde), eyes (violet and ice-blue), pale skin (he always had blushed cheeks). He keeps a lack of expression while you show obvious frustration.

You are holding a sunflower, watching as sunlight makes it shine yellow. It's pretty and you like it. It's balanced, beautiful, graceful.

You never really understood the concept of isocromia.

_Because everything, everything about you is monochromatic and you should be used to that._

* * *

Red in white, black in grey. The world was made of such sick colors all the time?

You want to end it all. Just that simple.

You want the blood dripping from your skull to mean that you will be gone soon. You want the pain to vanish. You want everything to disappear.

Being alone, you could cry in your dreams and no one would bother you, but memories – wars, hunger, pain, bombs, war, war, war – torment you even there.

_Pain was never just a collateral effect. You know it. You feel it._

You wake up in the middle of the night, desperate.

_Just a dream, just a dream._

* * *

You ask silently for a calm life, then you smile.

They say your people, your nation is _free_. At least that. You fought for that and at least that you had.

Maybe it's true, maybe it's not.

Your room is dark, and you want to see your soul. You would like to know if it is bright like Gilbert's, black as Ivan's, sad as Katyusha's or hurted like Toris's.

You smile. It's nothing like any of these, you just know.

You are different. You like an angel, but you are not. And your soul, aura, or whatever it is, would be as different as you.

_Because you are condemned._

You surpassed limits, and when you close your eyes, you only find nuances of red and all the tones of this color. It's always red that chases you down and you'll never be able to run away from it.

Red-blood, red-war, red-love, red-wine, red-Russia, red-Belarus, red- chrysanthemum, _red_. And you are just as monochromatic as this.

Your weak laugh fills silence.

_It's almost sad and almost absurd._

No.

You are alone.

_And no, you've never been free._

* * *

A/N: Finally! I've been writing this for ages. My second Hetalia fanfic that's not a translation. Yay, I guess. I'm a huge fan of Belarus and dislike how most fans portray her, so I wanted to write something that could show her other side or something, but, obvious, I didn't do a good job trying. Sorry. This is like a collection of fragments of her thoughts, dreams and life.

Now some points about this:

- This was first written in Portuguese, then I translated to English, so sorry if I wrote anything wrong.

- 1941: Year of Belarus occupation by Germany.

- 1921: Year of Belarus's division.

- 1991: Year of USSR's dissolution.

- I don't know much about Belarus's history, and since my intention with this is to show the character, not her history. But I did use somethings that are important in history, so I'm sorry if I wrote anything historically inaccurate.

- Yekaterina, Katyusha and Katya are the same person: Ukraine. Yekaterina is her name and the other two are short names. Natasha is a short name for Natalia.

- About colors: I was finishing my study about colors in school when I started this. Now, I don't know if I used the right terms, and I'd like domeone to correct me if I didn't. In Portuguese, "monochrome" is "monocromia", "polychrome" is "policromia", but I couldn't find a good translation of "isocromia". I don't know if that's the right name, but I chose to write it "isocromia". To those who don't know: isocromia is the right balance of colors. Or something like that.

That's it. Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated.


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